


Fix You

by fandomlver



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2018-02-23 02:51:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2531396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomlver/pseuds/fandomlver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmeme prompt: d'Artagnon is captured and held for whatever reason by whoever. They keep him awake and standing to wear him down; up to author on how they manage this.</p><p>By the time the others come rescue him he's been awake for at least a couple of days and is not at his most coherent, but he can't let himself relax, he keeps thinking he has to stay awake. The boys have to help him realize that everything's fine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fix You

d'Artagnan is swaying where he stands. In a distant way, he knows he’s doing it, but he can’t make himself stop.

“I think his lordship’s gonna go this time, lads!”

“M’not…” d'Artagnan concentrates, lifting his chin from his chest with a supreme effort. “Not a lord.”

“Oh dear. We’ve offended him now!” One of the bandits scrapes a bow. “Humble apologies, your Musketeership. Such a pleasure to have you here to learn me the right way of saying things.”

d'Artagnan’s head sinks back down without his quite meaning it to. He lets it hang, shifting slightly. His chains keep him in the corner, close to the walls on two sides, but if they see him leaning against either wall there will be trouble, and not for him. Otherwise, he’d let them do it. He’s so very tired.

Ice cold water douses him from chest to toes, shocking him back to something close to wakefulness. He bites back a whimper before they can hear it. They’re so careful to make sure he can’t drink anything but the couple of mouthfuls they allow him each day, withholding it until he begs. He’s long past resisting. If he thought it would help, he would beg for them to hurt him some other way – anything but this.

He shifts his weight again, wearily. They’ve taken his boots and the stone floor leaches the heat from him. If he doesn’t move every so often, no matter how much it hurts, he loses feeling in his feet.

The girl who serves the bandits appears in front of him; d'Artagnan forces himself to focus on her. “You won’t bite me, _monsieur_?” she asks quietly.

“My word on it,” he rasps, attempting a smile. He’d bitten the first three men who tried to force him to drink. Since then it’s been the girl every time, and he is as courteous as he can manage.

A heavy hand falls on her shoulder and she goes perfectly still as one of the men leans in past her. “Did he ask pretty, Marie?” He grins toothlessly at d'Artagnan. “You know he’s got to ask nicely first.”

d'Artagnan lets his gaze fall, watching their feet. “Please, beautiful _mademoiselle_ , would you grant me a boon?” He doesn’t bother to put any feeling into it, apart from calling her beautiful. As a rule, they don’t seem to care how sincere he is; they just want him to beg.

Marie steps forward, cupping a hand behind his head as she always does to help him. d'Artagnan doesn’t protest when she pulls away after only two mouthfuls; the guard is still standing behind her, watching them carefully.

Marie picks her way out of the room, and d'Artagnan shifts again, trying to get the feeling back into his feet.

It’s a lot later – how long, he has no idea; there are no windows in the room – when Marie returns. d'Artagnan is not really aware of her until a trickle of water runs over his face; he tries to turn into the flow and his shoulder brushes a wall, making him jerk away.

“Your guard is asleep,” Marie murmurs from somewhere close by. “When he sleeps, he sleeps deeply. But if he wakes, he will wake angry. Understand, _monsieur_? We must be silent.”

d'Artagnan nods slowly and she produces a water skin. “You should lean against the wall,” she suggests.

“I couldn’t stand again,” he admits lowly, unable to look away from the water skin. Marie takes the hint, but she refuses to let him drink too much at once, giving it to him in sips instead. d'Artagnan is frustrated, but he knows it’s better this way.

He finishes the first ‘skin and she produces another, using this one to smooth water over his face and neck and through his hair. “I can’t do much,” she murmurs. “They might notice if you’re suddenly clean. But I can do a little.”

“You risk so much to help me,” he says, just as quietly. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” she retorts. “You are suffering as we speak.”

“Worth it.”

“Maybe.” She lets him drink some more, and then feeds him some bread. “I couldn’t get more,” she apologizes.

“It might not be a good idea, anyway,” d'Artagnan tells her. His stomach is already protesting those few mouthfuls. If he's sick, they'll both pay dearly.

Marie cups his cheek for a moment, studying him. “I am sorry. I wish this was not happening to you.”

d'Artagnan considers for only a moment; this chance might not come again. “Truly?” Marie nods and he says, low and urgent, “Help me. Please.”

Marie’s hand drops and she takes a step back. “ _Monsieur_ …”

“Send word to my friends. Please? They will come.”

“Your friends will see me hang for my part in this!” she hisses.

“ _No_ ,” d'Artagnan protests. “No, Marie, I swear. They will protect you for your help to me.”

“ _Monsieur_ …”

“ _Please_ ,” and it has all the feeling he’s been keeping out of his tone.

Marie wavers, and then her shoulders sink. “How do I do it?”

“How far are we from Paris?”

“Not very. I can get there.”

He gives her the Bonacieux’s address. “Ask Constance to send for Athos,” he says quietly. “He is my comrade and my brother and he will make sure you are protected.”

Marie’s face alters and she slaps him, hard enough to make him dizzy for a moment. “How dare you,” she spits. “To think that I would leave my master for a place in your bed? Pig.”

The guard chuckles, startling d'Artagnan; he hadn’t realised he was awake. “The ego of Musketeers!”

Marie wraps her cloak around herself – concealing the water skins, d'Artagnan notes absently – and turns away from him with a huff. “I’m going out for supplies. Tell the others if they’re looking for me.”

The guard watches her go before wandering back to sit down. d'Artagnan lets his head fall again, watching through his bangs as the man drifts off and wondering how long it will take for his brothers to come.

 

Constance opens the door to find a young woman, soaked and exhausted, on her doorstep. “Madame Bonacieux?” she asks quickly.

“Who’s asking?”

“I’m sent with a message for the Musketeer Athos. I was told that you would help me.”

“Who told you so?” Constance demands.

“ _Madame_ , may I please step in?”

Constance hesitates for a moment before stepping aside. Glancing down the road, she whistles for one of the boys playing at war. “Go to the garrison, ask the Musketeer Athos to attend. It’s a matter of grave urgency.” The boy runs off and Constance retreats back inside.

The woman – barely more than a girl – is staring at the fire as though transfixed, but she looks up when Constance enters. “Your pardon, _madame_.”

Constance waves it aside. “You’re soaked through. Come with me, I should have something that’ll fit you.”

“ _Madame_ …”

“You can’t sit around in that. Come along.”

The knock on her door comes rather sooner than she’s expecting, and she’s surprised again when she opens it to Aramis rather than Athos. He tips his hat without removing it and sits as soon as she shows him in. “You have a problem, _Madame_ Bonacieux?”

“Where is Athos?”

“Detained,” he says briefly. “I have come in his place.”

Constance studies his posture with a frown. “And you’re injured. What’s going on?”

Aramis starts to answer, cutting himself off when the door creaks. Marie is swamped in one of Constance’s old dresses, eyes wide as she looks at them. “Musketeer Athos?”

Aramis shakes his head, half-standing to bow. “Athos is unavoidably detained, _mademoiselle_. He sends his apologies, and me. He has asked me to try to aid you in any way I can on his behalf.”

Marie shakes her head, taking a trembling step backwards. “I was promised – Athos was to protect me.”

“Protect you from what?” Constance asks, waving Aramis to sit back down. Whatever’s wrong with him, it’s hurting her to watch him pretend he’s not in pain.

Marie bits her lip. “I’m betraying my master to you,” she says finally. “He is not – a good man. And if he finds me, I will die very slowly. I was promised that Athos would afford me protection.”

Aramis takes his hat off, laying it carefully aside. “Athos is my comrade in arms, and my friend, and my brother,” he tells her. “I have known him for many years. And I will promise you now, if for any reason he cannot help you, I will. May I be cast from the Musketeers if I am false with you.”

Marie nods in relief, allowing Constance to guide her to a chair. “Thank you, _monsieur_.”

Aramis nods, waiting until she is settled. “Your message, my lady?”

“Marie,” Constance offers quietly; Aramis nods, but he doesn’t look away from the girl.

“My master,” she says hesitantly. “He is one of those who – enjoy hurting others, simply for fun. Because he can.” Aramis is nodding, but Marie is staring only at her own hands. “I was afraid to leave him. He is cruel to strangers. To those he thinks have betrayed him, he is so much worse. But I swear, I have never hurt anyone, and I have done my best to help when I can.”

“No one can ask more,” Aramis says quietly. Constance isn’t sure Marie can hear him; she seems locked in her own thoughts.

“My master captured a man recently,” she continues. “Little more than a boy, really. I have helped him, when I could. He begged me to send for help, he gave me Athos’ name.”

Constance draws a deep breath, turning to Aramis. There is only one young man she can think of who might be sending to Athos for this kind of help. “Aramis…”

“In a moment,” he promises her. “Marie, is he…”

“Alive, when I left this morning,” she says quietly. “And likely still so unless something has changed.”

Aramis breathes out harshly, pressing both fists to his forehead briefly. “Alive,” he says, so softly Constance almost misses it.

Looking up, he tells her “Please send a boy for Captain Treville; he must come here now.”

“What’s going on?” Constance asks without moving.

“d'Artagnan has been missing for some four days. Athos and Porthos are leading the search. I was with them, until I was injured and forced to return.” He rubs briefly at his leg. “Please, send for Captain Treville. I will answer all your questions then.”

Constance hesitates for a moment before going to do as he says. Aramis leans forward, catching Marie’s attention again. “Tell me how he is.”

“He is not…” Marie clears her throat and starts again. “He has no serious injuries. Scrapes, bruises, cuts; he will be very stiff and sore for some time, but nothing that will not heal.”

“I am glad of it,” Aramis says. “Now tell me what is wrong.”

Marie’s gaze flicks over his so briefly he can’t read it; she looks over his shoulder, speaking in a strange monotone. “My master has a game; it pleases him to play it with those he takes, sometimes.”

Constance steps back into the doorway, but she doesn’t speak and Aramis can’t spare any attention to look at her.

“He is bound to a wall, so that he can take no more than one step away from it,” Marie continues, still monotone. “His hands are bound behind him, so that if he tries to sit, or kneel, he must hurt his shoulders terribly, perhaps tear them from the socket. They leave him to stand there, with little water and no food; and they tell him that if he leans against the wall, even for a moment…”

She falters, looking down again; Aramis leans forward once more, touching her hand lightly. “You’re doing so well, Marie. Please.”

She looks up at him then. “My master chooses a new forfeit for every victim. He chose well, I think, for your friend…If he leans against the wall, they will hurt me,” she tells him. “They will do it in front of him, they will make me scream, and they will tell us both that it is on his hands. If he cannot stand any more, when his strength goes, they will wound me enough to ensure death and then lock us in together.”

Aramis hisses out a breath. That would certainly be enough to drive d'Artagnan past endurance. “Do you think that they would truly do this?”

Marie turns the hand he touched, laying it palm up on the table. Eyes still on his, she rolls up her sleeve.

Constance gasps from behind him, and Aramis looks down. A burn covers the inside of Marie’s wrist, perhaps two days old and still raw and painful looking.

He half turns to look at Constance. “Do you have what I need?”

“Yes,” she says faintly, and then shakes her head and repeats more loudly “Yes.” She slips past them into the kitchen.

Aramis pulls his chair closer to Marie’s, ignoring the flare of pain along his thigh as he does so, and carefully takes her wrist in both hands. Marie is passive as he examines it; it’s untreated and must be hurting her terribly. “d'Artagnan saw this happen?” he asks quietly.

“Yes,” she replies. “My master wanted to prove that he would hurt me if d'Artagnan failed. They tied him in the corner and then hurt me in front of him.”

“I am sorry that happened,” Aramis says as evenly as he can. “Where is your master holding him?”

“An old hunting lodge, long abandoned, perhaps fifteen miles outside Paris. I can lead you there.”

“Can you show me on a map?” he suggests.

Marie looks briefly confused before she nods. “I can try, _monsieur_.”

“Aramis,” he tells her.

Constance returns with a bowl of water, three or four sprigs of herbs and a handful of cloths. Aramis smiles thankfully at her, soaking a cloth and leaning back over Marie’s wrist.

When he touches the cloth to her wrist she jerks backwards so hard she almost tips off her chair. Aramis holds perfectly still, refusing even to press a hand against his leg, ignoring the pain flaring at the sudden movement.

“He’s just trying to help,” Constance says from behind him; she hasn’t moved either.

“My apologies,” Aramis says, sitting back a little and raising his gaze to hers. “I should have warned you first. I wish to clean and wrap your wrist; it will hurt, but it will heal far better.”

“Why?” Marie asks curiously, holding out her arm again to him.

“I have promised to protect you,” he reminds her, taking her wrist lightly. “That includes taking care of things like this. Tell me about the lodge. How many men?”

Constance watches as he works, keeping Marie distracted by asking about the lodge and grounds and the area around and the men and how often and how vigorously they patrol. Marie’s voice trembles, but she answers every question as completely as she can.

Constance excuses herself at a knock on the door. Captain Treville removes his hat when he sees her, nodding. “ _Madame_.”

“Captain,” she answers, feeling an entirely undeserved anger. She understands why they would keep this from her – she has no place in d'Artagnan’s life now – but it pains her to think she’s been carrying on as normal for four days while he was in trouble.

“I received a message to meet Aramis here urgently.”

“Yes. A young woman has come with news of d'Artagnan. Aramis is questioning her now.”

Treville freezes slightly when she says ‘d'Artagnan’, nodding grimly as she finishes. “Thank you, _madame_.”

Constance leads him into the room, where Aramis is finishing the wrap. Marie rubs at her face, murmuring something Constance can’t quite hear.

Aramis raises her wrist, pressing gentle lips to the clean bandage. “I think you are among the bravest women I have ever known,” he tells her sincerely. “Now I will tell Captain Treville what you have told me. Please, if I get something wrong, correct me.”

Constance disappears into the kitchen as the men talk quietly; she returns with a tray as Marie is saying “Already d'Artagnan endures longer than many, and I fear for him.”

“You think he will fail soon?” Aramis asks quietly, absently accepting the mug Constance pushes at him.

“No,” Marie says. “I think my master will become bored and find another way to amuse himself. If you love your friend, _monsieur_ , I beg you to hurry.”

 

Treville and Aramis fight quietly about it as the garrison readies itself. “You can’t come, Aramis, you are wounded.”

“I can sit a horse and fire a weapon,” Aramis says evenly. “And I will not face Athos and tell him I knew d'Artagnan was in trouble and did nothing to help him.”

“Aramis…”

“Marie has given us information that should allow us to finish this without fighting.” He silently blesses the girl, now resting under Constance’s care; the news that her former master’s son would be among the guards will certainly help.

Treville mutters something under his breath. “I will assign you a guard and you will make no effort to lose him, do you understand? Athos will be very unhappy if you’re injured further.”

Aramis nods obediently, though he has no intention of being left behind and he knows Treville knows it. “I wouldn’t wish to concern him. Have you sent word?”

“I don’t know if they’ll make it in time. Stay here, I will find someone to ride with you.”

Aramis waits until Treville returns with another Musketeer, repeats his promise to behave, and swings into his saddle. His erstwhile escort smiles faintly. “You’ve no intention of doing as he says, have you?”

“That may depend on what we find.” Aramis winks at him.

The ride out to the lodge is not fun. Aramis grits his teeth and suffers through it, ignoring the concerned looks from Captain Treville. The group pauses perhaps half a mile from the lodge, just beyond the sentry boundaries Marie gave him, to go over the plan once more. Aramis ignores it except to tip his hat when Treville warns him once more not to get too close.

The fight is distant, from his horse. He takes down two men attempting to flee, and then completely ignores his escort and urges his horse closer. At the edge of the clearing surrounding the lodge he dismounts, passing his reins to the nearest Musketeer and moving to stand at Treville’s shoulder.

Athos ghosts out of the group to join Aramis. “You shouldn’t be walking on that leg.”

“Shut up. Where’s Porthos?”

“On his way.”

Athos passes behind Aramis and Treville to take control of their hostage; Aramis sincerely hopes it is the boy they wanted, or d'Artagnan will be forfeit. “Are we waiting for something?” Athos enquires.

Treville gestures to two or three Musketeers, who fire in the general direction of the lodge. A couple of guards come out and are picked off cleanly; then Athos’ hostage jerks towards the door as another man appears and Treville calls ‘Hold!’

“Captain,” the man says politely.

“Step away from the door, sir,” Treville tells him. The man obliges, hands held out away from his side. Aramis pushes forward; someone is following him, but it’s neither Treville nor Athos so he ignores it.

The lodge is not large, and Aramis sees no other guards. d'Artagnan is easily found. Aramis halts in the doorway, turning to snap a brief ‘No one comes in.’ The Musketeer behind him nods in understanding and Aramis turns away, crossing the floor. d'Artagnan’s head is lowered, but Aramis knows well he’s being watched.

“d'Artagnan,” he says softly, halting out of reach. d'Artagnan’s head comes up very slightly, but it lowers again before Aramis can see his face. “d'Artagnan,” he says again, and this time he lays a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

A shudder runs through d'Artagnan's body, but he doesn’t react apart from that. Aramis puts it aside, turning his attention to the manacles holding d'Artagnan in place. They aren’t locked, since d'Artagnan can’t possibly get them off on his own, and he quickly pulls them free. d'Artagnan's wrists are badly torn and he sways when the chains drop away, but he doesn’t slump as Aramis was half expecting. 

Aramis cups the back of the boy’s neck, forcing his gaze up. “d'Artagnan.”

d'Artagnan stares blearily at him for a moment before his gaze sharpens. “Aramis,” he murmurs dazedly.

“Yes,” Aramis agrees with a smile. “Can you walk, d'Artagnan?”

d'Artagnan frowns. “Is it very far?”

“No, not far. Just outside. The others are all waiting.”

He takes a step and then halts, looking down. “They took my boots.”

Aramis grimaces. “Are your feet hurt?”

“No. Just very cold.” d'Artagnan moves one arm very slowly – his shoulder is clearly paining him badly – and curls his fingers around Aramis’ sleeve. “Athos and Porthos?”

“Athos is outside. Porthos is on his way.” Aramis waits patiently until d'Artagnan makes the first move, shuffling awkwardly towards the door.

“How long?” d'Artagnan murmurs.

“You were overdue four days ago,” Aramis tells him. “Marie tells me you’ve been standing for more than three.”

“Marie,” d'Artagnan echoes. “She found you.” Aramis hums in acknowledgment and d'Artagnan adds “I promised she would not be hurt.”

“As did I. She’s with Constance now.”

d'Artagnan shies away from the doorframe as they approach it; Aramis has to lead him through turned sideways, murmuring encouragement the whole way. Athos is waiting outside, pistol levelled at the head of their erstwhile hostage and the older man.

His gaze flicks briefly over the pair as they emerge. “Aramis?”

Aramis tilts his head, knowing Athos will read it perfectly – _could be better, could be worse_ – and concentrates on helping d'Artagnan to the cart someone has found for them. The gunshots behind them don’t surprise him, though d'Artagnan startles badly enough to throw them both off balance. Porthos appears from nowhere, steadying them until Aramis can find his balance again. d'Artagnan is little help, hanging limply between them until Aramis verbally reminds him to stand.

“You shouldn’t be walking on that leg,” Porthos tells him.

“Shut up,” Aramis says with a sigh.

d'Artagnan frowns, eyes coming back into focus. “You – Aramis, are you hurt?”

“No,” Aramis lies easily. “Here,” he adds as they round the back of the cart.

d'Artagnan eyes the cart as though it were twenty feet high. Porthos steps forward without waiting for him, sweeping him off his feet and depositing him in it. Aramis climbs in on his own, guiding d'Artagnan to sit.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, already testing limbs and ribs and head. d'Artagnan allows him to do it, sitting passively against the cart wall; his attention is already starting to slip away, and Aramis expects he will fall unconscious very soon.

He reaches up to cup d'Artagnan's neck once more, capturing his attention. “Are you hurt,” he asks softly.

d'Artagnan blinks slowly. “Bruises, I just - it’s bruises, there’s nothing, it’s fine. They didn’t want - it’s not fun if I can’t play, I’m fine. Fine. I’m so thirsty. Please?”

Porthos calls a command to someone and a moment later a water skin is tossed to Aramis. He offers it to d'Artagnan, who looks at it as though he doesn’t quite understand. “Please?” he says again.

Porthos mutters something Aramis can’t quite make out, raising his voice to say “Help him with it.”

Aramis hesitates as he realises what Porthos means, but then he forces himself to smile easily. “Of course. Your arms must be very sore,” he agrees, taking the ‘skin back and opening it. d'Artagnan watches it intently as Aramis shifts to sit beside him, bracing him with an arm around his shoulders. “Small sips,” he murmurs, and though d'Artagnan is obviously terribly thirsty he obeys without protest.

Athos passes by halfway through the ‘skin. Aramis shakes his head slightly and Athos doesn’t stop, going to talk to Treville before returning. “We are ready. Can he travel?”

“Yes. Slowly,” Aramis says. d'Artagnan immediately backs away from the ‘skin and Aramis shakes his head in frustration. “Keep drinking, d'Artagnan.”

Athos raises an eyebrow in question; Aramis shakes his head, unable to deal with more than one brother at a time. Porthos catches Athos’ shoulder, leaning in to murmur softly to him, and Athos nods slowly. “We ride, then. Let us know if you need to stop or slow down. Your leg?”

"Much better sitting here," Aramis says dryly, and Athos nods.

He vanishes again, and a few minutes later the cart rocks into movement. Aramis ignores it, concentrating on getting d'Artagnan to eat something. The young Gascon is clearly unhappy, but he doesn’t argue when Aramis urges him to eat some bread and cheese Porthos has scrounged from somewhere.

Ten minutes later it comes back up, and Aramis has to move fast to get d'Artagnan’s head over the side of the cart. Porthos produces another ‘skin and Aramis uses it to clean them both up when d'Artagnan is done.

“My fault,” he murmurs softly. “I should have known you’d not have much stomach for food. Can you drink a little more, do you think?”

d'Artagnan eyes the ‘skin with a desperation that breaks Aramis’ heart, but he shakes his head mournfully. “I’d be sick again.”

“In a little while, then.” Aramis doesn’t bother reminding the boy that he can have as much to drink as he wants, whenever he wants it; he knows d'Artagnan knows that, knowing it is not the issue. “Come here.”

He manoeuvres them both until d'Artagnan is resting against him; it’ll be easier for him to take than leaning against the side of the cart. d'Artagnan is passive through the move, but he is tense where they touch, Aramis can feel it. “You are safe,” he says softly, brushing tangled hair away from d'Artagnan’s face. “The regiment surrounds us. No one will touch you again.”

“Yes,” d'Artagnan murmurs, but he doesn’t relax. Aramis doesn’t push it; he expects d'Artagnan to sleep very soon, now that he’s safe and lying down. He won’t be able to keep himself awake much longer.

The journey back to Paris is longer than the journey out, the group riding far more slowly to accommodate the cart. d'Artagnan is still, impossibly, awake as they approach the city. He has fallen into some kind of stupor, staring blankly straight ahead, but it’s not real sleep. He rouses whenever Aramis moves or someone comes too close to the cart, watchful and wary even when it’s Athos or Porthos. Out of deference, the other Musketeers stay far from the cart to avoid upsetting him further.

“d'Artagnan, you must rest,” Aramis pleads again. He’s known soldiers who left battle and found they could not sleep; it’s a very quick road into madness, and he is terrified that d'Artagnan is already too far gone.

d'Artagnan mumbles something that might be assent. The hand curled in Aramis’ shirt tightens as Athos leans over from his position riding beside the cart, eyeing them both. “What’s wrong?” he asks softly.

Aramis shakes his head helplessly. “He can’t seem to allow himself to relax.”

Athos grunts. “He knows that he is safe?”

“I have told him, but…” Aramis pauses suddenly. “Oh. Porthos!” d'Artagnan’s grip tightens again as Porthos joins them; Aramis absently soothes him. “Ride to the city as quickly as you can,” he tells Porthos. “There is a young woman under the care of Constance Bonacieux. Bring her to the garrison. Tell her I have sent for her; she will be wary.”

“Who is she?” Porthos asks.

“She gave me the information that led us to d'Artagnan.”

Porthos nods, guiding his horse away a little before kicking it into a gallop.

"Who is she?" Athos asks quietly.

Aramis winces as d'Artagnan's grip threatens to draw blood; he rearranges them carefully before turning his head towards Athos. "They threatened her to make him obey."

He can see Athos put it together. It isn't hard, not when they know d'Artagnan so well. Athos nods, guiding his horse a few paces away to allow the boy to relax.

Aramis murmurs soothing words, stroking d'Artagnan's arm lightly. He doesn't expect it to help. They can't reach d'Artagnan where he is now.

 

Constance insists on coming with them. Porthos doesn't complain. The young woman – Marie, Constance tells him – is far beyond wary and much closer to terrified. Having Constance around seems to help her.

"How is he?" Constance asks as they hurry through the streets.

"Alive," Porthos tells her. "And not bleeding nor broken anywhere I could see."

Constance breathes a quiet prayer. Marie seems equally pleased.

The Musketeers have made it back to the garrison ahead of Porthos. He threads his way through the crowded courtyard, reaching back for Marie's wrist when she falls behind. Constance calls something he can't hear over the noise, but he doesn't stop, hurrying up the stairs and along the corridor to d'Artagnan's room. Aramis and d'Artagnan are sitting on the bed, much the same way as they sat on the cart. Athos leans against the wall by the window, arms tucked tightly across his chest.

Constance breathes another prayer when she sees d'Artagnan, and Porthos can’t blame her. Their young Gascon looks awful, pale and drawn, eyes glassy and unfocused, and even with Aramis supporting him he’s clearly unsteady.

Constance slips past Porthos to kneel in front of d'Artagnan, touching his knee lightly. d'Artagnan smiles in a vague way before looking away, gazing vacantly at the nearest wall. Constance sits back on her heels, looking to Aramis for help.

“They threatened Marie to keep him awake,” Aramis reminds her.

Constance turns to look for Marie, who is all but hiding behind Porthos. The older woman rises to her feet, holding out a hand for Marie’s and drawing her forward. Marie considers the tableau for a moment before looking up. “A little water, _monsieur_?”

Athos pushes away from the wall to fill d'Artagnan’s wash basin and bring it to her. Marie sits on the edge of the bed, lifting a handful of water and allowing it to trickle over d'Artagnan’s face.

He turns his head into the stream and she smiles faintly, repeating the action. “ _Monsieur_.”

“Marie.” His voice cracks painfully.

“Yes.” She continues to drip water over his face.

“Did Athos…” He runs out of words, tilting his head back as she smoothes water through his hair.

Marie glances at Aramis for help, and he says easily, “Marie has our full protection, d'Artagnan.”

Porthos wonders if he’s the only one with no idea what’s going on.

Marie tugs lightly at a hank of hair, and d'Artagnan drags his eyes open to look at her. “You should rest,” she says gently. d'Artagnan hums assent, eyes drifting closed again, and she looks to Constance, offering her the water bowl and slipping off the bed to make room for her.

Athos catches Porthos’ eye and he guides the girl out of the room, pulling the door mostly closed behind them.

“Forgive me, _mademoiselle_ ,” Athos says politely. “I know little of this story. Please, tell me.”

Marie tells them everything she knows, apologising over and over even while Athos tells her to stop. She explains that d'Artagnan was a target of opportunity, taken because he was alone rather than as part of any plan; she relates his initial rough treatment and then the three days spent on his feet on threat of her life.

“And our protection?” Athos asks when she’s finished. Porthos blinks. Apparently he wasn’t the only one who didn’t know what was happening.

Marie keeps her gaze on the floor. “I feared – he is a Musketeer; I feared that you would blame me for my master’s actions. He swore that you would keep me safe, _monsieur_ Athos.”

“He spoke truly,” Athos agrees.

Marie relaxes slightly, and Porthos realises she had still been expecting punishment. He reaches to take her wrist. Marie shies back, freezing when Athos catches her shoulder to steady her.

“Are you injured?” Athos enquires, voice steady and calm as it only ever is when he’s angry.

“ _Monsieur_ Aramis has taken care of it,” she says, drawing away from him a little.

“Show me,” Athos orders. Marie flinches at his tone but rolls up her sleeve to let him see the bandage.

Porthos takes a step back. “I held you by that wrist.”

Marie glances at him, looking confused. “You were in a hurry.”

Porthos starts to speak, but the door opens and Constance appears. “He’s sleeping,” she reports. “Aramis hopes he will sleep for a long time now.” She looks at Marie, smiling. “Thank you.”

Marie looks away again. “I was lucky, _madame_.”

“Luck like that we can use,” Porthos declares. “I will fetch food and wine.”

“d'Artagnan won’t eat,” Constance reminds him.

“d'Artagnan nothing, Athos and I haven’t eaten in most of a day, and I’m guessing you haven’t, either.” He tips his hat to them, heading down to the kitchen and - if he’s honest with himself - to get some air and try and calm himself before he snaps at someone who doesn’t deserve it.

By the time he returns the corridor is empty. Constance is sitting on d'Artagnan’s bed, gently washing his face and neck and arms. Aramis is still trapped beneath him, holding him tightly, obviously ready to stay until d'Artagnan wakes. Athos is back beside the window, watching closely. Marie is sitting quietly on the room’s one rickety chair, hands folded neatly in her lap.

"Aramis, you need to move?" Porthos asks, glancing at his leg.

Aramis shakes his head. "There's no weight on it. I'm fine, thank you."

Porthos nods, passes around a plate of bread and cheese and meat, and cups of water, and settles in to wait with them.

 

d'Artagnan sleeps for most of two days, and when he wakes he cannot stand for any length of time. Athos arranges with Treville for one of them to be off duty at all times to be with him. When they can’t manage it Constance fills in, though from her reports d'Artagnan spends a lot of time sleeping when she’s around. Athos doesn't blame him; that wound is still raw and fresh.

On the plus side, d'Artagnan’s trouble keeping down water has not recurred since the first time he woke and within a few days he is also able to eat without difficulty. He’s stiff and sore, but healing nicely, and Aramis thinks his wrists will heal without a scar, though they will have to work on his flexibility once he’s well enough.

Athos has spoken quietly to Treville, and between them they’ve found Marie a job in the palace kitchens. When d'Artagnan is told, he demands to see her to make sure she’s happy. However, between caring for him and working their normal missions, no one has been available to escort her until today. 

d’Artagnan is finishing lunch when Athos pushes his door open, leaning against the frame without coming in. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” d'Artagnan returns.

“Good morning,” Aramis says pointedly from the window. Athos acknowledges him distractedly.

“How do you feel?”

“I walked along the corridor and back a couple of times,” d'Artagnan offers.

“That’s good,” Athos says sincerely. “I brought someone to see you.”

d'Artagnan looks up curiously, smiling broadly when Athos moves and Marie steps into the doorway. “Marie.” 

“ _Monsieur_.”

“My name is d'Artagnan,” he says in exasperation. Marie smiles, but she doesn’t answer, and Athos doesn’t think she’ll change her ways. “Come in. Athos says that you have a job now.”

“Yes, in the kitchens at the Louvre.” d'Artagnan smiles broadly and she shrugs. “I scrub pots and wash vegetables.”

“Are you happy?”

“Very.” She smiles again. “And how do you fare?”

“Very well,” he assures her. “I will be back to training soon.”

Athos glances at Aramis, who seesaws his hand back and forth. d'Artagnan ignores them huffily. Aramis smiles, tipping his head down to hide it.

Athos turns his attention back to the bed at the tension in d'Artagnan’s form. “I should have broken with him long ago,” Marie is saying softly. “Perhaps spared you. If I hadn’t been there...”

“Perhaps died in the attempt, and then where would I be?” d'Artagnan takes her hand gently, pressing a kiss to her palm. Looking back up at her, he adds, “There is no blame except on him.”

Marie smiles, reaching with her other hand to grip his. “Thank you. For everything you suffered to protect me.”

d'Artagnan dips his head. “I hope it will never be necessary again. But if it should, I will serve.”

Athos’ protest overlaps with Aramis’. Marie outright laughs, rising to her feet; leaning down, she kisses d'Artagnan’s forehead. “Then I will certainly call if I need it.”

“Do,” he says quietly, and she nods, turning away.

“I will wait outside, _monsieur_ ,” she tells Athos as she passes him.

“His name’s Athos!” d'Artagnan shouts after her.

Athos glances at Aramis. “Back to training soon?”

“Not so soon as he thinks –“ They both ignore the whine coming from the bed. “But soon enough. There’s nothing wrong a little more time won’t heal.”

“Good.” Athos pats d'Artagnan’s shoulder a little awkwardly.

Aramis pushes off the windowsill, adjusting his hat carefully. “Well, I could do with a walk. I’ll escort our young friend home."

"Can you?" Athos asks.

Aramis glances at his leg. "Good as new. Or close enough. Exercise is good. You,” he adds to d'Artagnan, “no running around while my back’s turned.”

“I’m bored, Aramis! And I’m fine!”

Athos scratches thoughtfully at his beard. “I could arrange to have Madame Bonacieux come to keep you company? I understand her husband is away on business at the moment.”

d'Artagnan scowls, flopping backwards across the bed. “You play dirty,” he says accusingly.

“What can I say, Porthos has rubbed off on me. Run along, Aramis, or walk along if that's easier. I’ll make sure he behaves.” Aramis grins, tipping his hat and heading out.

Athos considers d'Artagnan for a moment before saying nonchalantly, “He won’t be back until this evening.”

d'Artagnan props himself up on his elbows, eyeing Athos. “True.”

Athos nods approvingly; d'Artagnan shows no stiffness or weakness now. “Get some rest now, and after dinner we’ll go down to the courtyard. No sparring,” he adds before d'Artagnan can speak. “But you can run through your forms, if you promise me you will stop if you feel weak or sore.”

“I promise,” d'Artagnan says immediately, eyes bright.

Athos smiles, touching his head lightly. “Rest, d'Artagnan.”

d'Artagnan lies back down, settling himself comfortably. He studies Athos curiously for a moment. “Was I so very far away?”

“Far enough.” Athos clears his throat noisily, settling on the chair. “You were far enough.”

d'Artagnan spreads his hands. “I am here.”

“Yes, because you managed to turn yet another young woman to your cause,” Athos agrees dryly. “Aramis should be looking to his laurels, I think.” d'Artagnan smiles, taking the dig in good humour. Athos taps his shoulder, meaning to let his hand linger but not quite able to do it. “You did well, d'Artagnan.”

d'Artagnan smiles again, broadly, and then his eyes close and he drifts. Athos settles himself in, watching over their youngest brother to make sure nothing will harm him again.

 

_When you feel so tired, but you can't sleep...  
Lights will guide you home,  
And I will try to fix you._


End file.
